Carrie Bennett is the author of four poetry collections, most recently The Mouth Is Also a Compass. She teaches poetry at Boston University and is currently working on dystopian IVF poems. Find out more about her work at www.carriembennett.com.
Little engine inside each leaf, the cloud a sharp feather straight to the moon. Each day returns to itself in search of safety. Animal tracks circle the sidewalk. I carry my green panic like a wardrobe stuffed with dirty dishes. I crawl back to bed. Let the animals sign my name with their soft paws.
Where needles test the body’s currents. Without reason many degrees colder. A curtain pulled to barely block— no part hidden now, the holding organ a nest. Closer to bowl, bones curved to carry. Impulse like a lung expanding. Far away a promise of cloud against anything blue. The ocean knocks on a door at the bottom.